At War's End
by VolksParadox
Summary: As a desperate civil war rages on, Elsa's job as a nurse becomes more unbearable by the day. The wounds go deep, and there is no certainty in the future. War AU (loosely based on the Spanish Civil War.)


-ooo-

 **At War's End**

The horizon was on fire. Above the fields, she heard the rumble of the planes. Away, far away, long trails of smoke stained the skies. Utter and complete madness surrounded her. She moved through the camp towards a white tent, where a cacophony of screams reached her ears. Fidgeting with the hem of her apron, she took a deep breath before stepping inside. The sight never failed to make her nauseous, no matter how many times she had seen it.

Far too many times.

Rows and rows of men littered the beds, the ground. They were everywhere, sometimes slumping one against the other. Some of them were sleeping. Some other had passed out. Others – she knew – were death, and no one had the time, nor the inclination, to move their cold bodies.

Someone yelled from behind and she looked over her shoulder, frightened. Quickly, she moved to the right, and a queue of soldiers brought more injured in makeshift stretchers: their uniforms were covered in mud, ashes, and blood. Their faces seemed to be made of stone: grey and void of life.

They just kept coming. Day after day. Today had been one of the worst yet.

"Elsa!" Dr. Borgman called her. She made her way towards the tall, broad man. He looked at her through his tiny glasses, _that_ stern look already engrained on his face.

"Take care of those." He pointed towards some of the men resting in a row of beds close to the tarp's wall. He moved to the next one, checking his lungs, his arms. The man moaned, his eyes gazing deliriously from one side to the other. The doctor shook his head, and moved on.

She began to inspect the wounded assigned to her.

Her hands moved expertly, bandaging, injecting, cutting and sewing. One man had his whole left side pierced by shrapnel. She patched him up as best as she could. When she asked her if he would see again from his ravaged eye, Elsa's throat dried up. So she moved on.

Another one clutched his belly, screaming. He would most likely not make it through the day. She called for the military police, hoping for a miracle. A couple of nameless men took him, leaving towards the other medical tent, the one the soldiers grimly called 'the butcher's house'.

In the ground a man sat; his eyes down-casted, his shoulders trembling sporadically. She kneeled, lifting his head delicately. His eyes were unfocused. She noticed a trim line of blood running down his right ear. "Can you hear me?" She asked. He didn't answer. Then she shouted. He still did not answer. She waved and snapped her fingers in front of him. His eyes were clouded. Shell-shock. A pang of sorrow pulled at her heart. She ignored it.

She moved from one wound to the next, until her hands were tainted by deep crimson, as well as her nurse apron. But she did not care about that stuff. She cared about life, about salvation. So she kept on, closing her heart to the suffering glares she encountered each time.

The fourth man she tried to help died within the hour. So did the eleventh. But she moved on. Many others arrived, a seemingly endless stream of bodies, contorted by pain and fear. She tried her best, to cure, to comfort. A gentle pat on the shoulder, a kind word here and there, but she could not linger on any one of them.

If she did, it would break her, eventually; for death and madness were synonyms to her in this God-forsaken place.

So she moved on.

-ooo-

In a corner outside the tent, guarded by a couple of MP's, were the prisoners of war, the ones too injured or sick to be sent to the prisoner's camp. They were the lowest priority: it meant they were basically ignored. With luck, maybe they would get someone to bandage their wounds, throw them an aspirin or two. The clever ones exchanged their watches, or cigarettes, for a dose of morphine or a loaf of bread. Most of them didn't even wear a uniform. They were partisans, dressed in long, battered coats and farming boots.

The flow of the wounded slowed to a trickle through-out the day. Twilight was approaching, and the guttural sounds of pain had died down to where she could actually listen to her own thoughts. Looking around, Elsa noticed most of the medical staff had already left, probably to grab some supper at the cabin. The little group of men in the corner were deadly silent, except for the occasional cough, some of them crouching, some others sleep.

But all of their eyes shared the same trait: resignation.

Elsa made her way towards them, earning the disapproving glances of many of the other nurses. She didn't care. Maybe everyone else chose to forget it, but she didn't. They were still humans; only difference was they were caught on the wrong side of the fence. Inside her apron's pockets were a couple of bandages and some gauzes she had hidden.

She inspected them as quickly as she could, cleaning some of the worst cuts on their faces and limbs. One by one, they looked at her with equal distrust and gratefulness. She reached the last one, slouched against the side of a wooden pole.

His face was covered with a scarf, and his eyes were closed. His hair – cut in little bangs that spread outwards in every direction – was covered in dirt, but Elsa could make out the details of the color beneath it: strawberry-blonde; her favorite. His hand lay over his side, across his belly, just below the ribs. She noticed the dried blood in the ragged coat as well. She took out the scissors she had on her pocket, intent on cutting the clothes to take a look.

Carefully, she tried to remove the hand and arm obstructing the wound, but, suddenly, the man's other arm caught her wrist, somewhat forcefully. A little bit startled, she looked up, and her gaze met a pair of fully aware, deep, teal eyes, sparkling with apprehension. She tried again to move the arm, but his grip wouldn't budge. She looked at him again, inquiring. He shook his head, fear now clear on the somewhat soft features visible beneath the cloth covering the skin.

Once more, she attempted to remove the stubborn limb, and once more she was stopped. The blonde nurse engaged his eyes again, bothered by the irrational actions. Didn't he realize she wanted to help him? The scarf slipped a little bit in the exchange, and when she glanced at him, Elsa noticed something else. Freckles. A tiny nose. She frowned, lowering her eyes. A lean shape, thin arms. She noticed the way the fabric on the man's breast pressed outwards – barely visible –.

Her eyes opened in surprise. The wounded whimpered, tightening his hold on her wrist almost painfully. He shook his head again; his eyes asking, begging an unspoken plea.

Elsa corrected herself. Not his. _Her_ eyes.

Her gaze softened. She understood. But at the same time, she felt sick, angry even. This was no place for a girl like her. From a quick glance, Elsa could tell the frightened partisan had not even reached her twenties. Being a woman _and_ a prisoner was dangerous. She had seen it, the way some soldiers looked at her and the other nurses; they usually contained themselves, because they fought for the same side. But the girl did not have that insurance.

"It's ok." She hushed. "I won't tell. Please. Let me have a look."

She put the scissors back on her pocket, and gentle enveloped the hand grasping at her wrist with her own. The redhead flinched a little at her delicate touch, but her eyes were not so tense anymore. Elsa sensed the hesitation and pushed on, widening her smile.

"I just want to check that wound." She whispered, taking a gauze and a wet rag from her pocket. The girl glanced warily at the guards, but both seemed distracted enough, chatting and smoking with each other. A quick nod followed, and Elsa lifted carefully the coat and the thin shirt below. The girl winced at the contact, hissing through clenched teeth.

The blonde muttered an apology but kept her examination, fully aware she didn't have much time. A bullet wound was quickly ruled out, as well as internal damage from shrapnel. The nasty cuts on the belly had not pierced through the skin completely and were barely bleeding. Still, she cleaned them as best as she could, with what little she had.

"I'm sorry I can't do more. But at least it's less likely it will get infected." She said. The young woman gave Elsa this weird look, a mix of surprise and skepticism. As if her actions were too good to be true. But, in a way, this glance was different from the others she usually received.

More intense, more… open. Like a hesitant reaffirmation of something far deeper.

The nurse stood up, straightening the wrinkles on her apron with a quick brush. With her back turned to the guards, Elsa warmly smiled down at the injured woman, biding her goodbye. She was about to turn on her heels and go towards the tent – intent on doing a last check up on the late arrivals – when the girl's face straightened with resolve.

The redhead silently mouthed 'thank you' at her, gazing up with those shining, teal eyes. And Elsa felt, just for a brief moment, that enduring those bloody, hellish days maybe somewhat possible.

-ooo-

 **AN:** Cheesy ending? Well, yes, of course. This is just a little idea I had months ago. This one is gonna be 5 to 6 short chapters. No update schedule for this one; sorry about that. Reviews would be deeply appreciated, as always. Cheers!


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